He was shouting when he finished, and swept his arm in a wide motion that included Vargas and all the men of the Leeuwin.
"He is, in a word," he continued, "me."
Lysbeth felt Marit go rigid at her side.
"You and your men gave us a fight this morning, Vargas. And that don't sit well with me. We're freshly victualled and out for the season. I need men right now more than I do a bounty." Suarez poked his finger into Vargas' chest, saying, "So here's what's going to happen."
Marit started to shake at Lysbeth's side. Without warning, the diminutive woman surged forward with a scream. Had Lysbeth not been leaning on her for support, the woman might have leapt on the pirate Suarez.
"You killed him, you bastards!" Marit screamed.
Lysbeth got an arm around the smaller woman's waist. She struggled to hold her. Marit had gone mad. Her voice climbed to a shriek as she struggled to work free of Lysbeth's grasp.
"You bastards. You killed him!"
Suarez watched, his thin brows pulled down in a weathered scowl. He looked more irritated at the interruption than concerned about an assault from the tiny Dutch woman.
Marit tore at Lysbeth's arms with her nails. Things would go poorly for Marit if she struck their captor, so Lysbeth ground her teeth beneath swollen lips and held on.
As suddenly as it began, the frantic struggle stopped. Marit stopped tearing at Lysbeth's arms. The skin burned where clawed hands had raked her. Marit slumped forward, all but burying her face in her ruined skirts.
Lysbeth saw the pirate captain's scowling eyes go wide in alarm. It was then that she remembered what Marit had hidden beneath her skirts.
She didn't know who Marit intended to shoot with the flintlock pistol. Presumably Suarez, but the gun swung dangerously in her hands. Sparks leapt as flint struck the frizzen.
Men scattered. A boom rolled out from the ship. It echoed back from the nearby Portuguese shore.
Marit's shot was comically wide of Suarez. He crouched with his arms covering his head, as if he still feared being hit by the shot.
The ball tore instead through the throat of a dark, shirtless pirate in a turban. His mouth gaped open and he clapped a hand to his savaged neck. He turned wide, unblinking eyes on Marit. Then he lifted his own pistol and fired.
Marit's body bucked in Lysbeth's arms. Then she went slack. The weight of her pulled Lysbeth down to sit awkwardly on the deck.
"Stop!" Suarez roared. He spat out words in a language that seemed to be assembled randomly from Spanish, Dutch, French, and Arabic. Men, pirates and sailors alike, scrambled to clear away from the deck.
The throatless pirate dropped his gun with a leaden clunk. Then he toppled, dead before his body struck wood.
Vargas moved with the other men, but Suarez stopped him with a word. "Not you," the pirate captain said. "You stay here."
Lysbeth was left alone, holding Marit. Only Suarez and Vargas remained.
"I swear," Suarez barked, "the next man to raise a weapon will be dragged by the heels when we leave this place."
He looked at Marit, sprawled in Lysbeth's lap. He swore. Then he saw the flintlock lying at the young bride's feet, twin to the one taken from Lysbeth.
His eyes snapped up to meet hers. Lysbeth froze. The hair on her arms and neck rose. She shook, although she couldn't be sure if it was her motion or Marit's.
Suarez pointed a short, dark finger at her. "You sneaky bastard."
He took quick steps toward her, leaning over Marit's body to stab the finger at her face, "What is your name, Sneaky Bastard?"
Lysbeth could not speak. Even if she could produce sound, she hadn't thought to consider a name for her masculine disguise. She wondered again if her father's name would save her should her sex be discovered.
Suarez spoke again, presumably restating the question, but this time in a language she didn't understand. Lysbeth cast her eyes about, not wanting to look at the pirate. She searched, desperate for help and not daring to speak.
She found Vargas.
Her gaze locked on his. His dark eyes were red around the edges. His face looked sunken, the cheeks hollow beneath his coarse beard. Lysbeth's terror was a wordless chill that wound itself, constricting around her throat.
She sensed Suarez loom closer toward her, but couldn't pull her eyes from Vargas.
She did not know what Alonso Vargas saw in her face. His, however, was changed. It was etched with rage and drowned in recent loss. But his lips parted and he saved Lysbeth's life with a word.
"Klaus," Vargas said.
Lysbeth jerked her eyes to look at Suarez. The little pirate had straightened and turned to face Vargas.
"His name," Vargas lied, "is Klaus von Lisse. He handles my affairs. You'll find his name all over the manifest. He's worthless as a sailor, and doesn't speak a word of anything other than Dutch. Doesn't speak much at all, come to think of it. 'Course, talk ain't the only thing a pair of lips is good for."
Suarez turned to glare down at Lysbeth. He flicked his gaze to Marit, and Lysbeth's eyes followed. A dark, wet band wrapped her belly - wide and spreading to either side like a cummerbund. The blood looked slick and black like pitch in the harsh overhead light, a sharp contrast to the pale skin of Marit's small hands.
Suarez squatted. He took up the flintlock from where it lay at Marit's feet. He held both of Lysbeth's twins now, one in each hand. He stood then, and took a small half-step back from her. He pointed a gun, the loaded one the men had taken from her belt, leveling it at her face.
Lysbeth didn't dare look away. For a long moment, she did not breathe.
"Klaus," Suarez yelled, his voice pitched to reach the men on both ships, "is a Sneaky Bastard. Whatever ship I'm on, Sneaky Bastard will be on the other. Is that clear?"
He turned from her then, addressing all of the men still aboard the Leeuwin.
"Anyone else want to kill one of my men?" he asked into the silence. "No? Good then. Now what I've been trying to tell you is this. Welcome to the crew!
"You will be the razor edge of my scimitar. You are my marines! When I take a prize, you will be first to board. If you are last to leave my deck, I will shoot you myself. If you fight hard, Allah will reward you. If you are very lucky, the fates may spare you. Be lucky long enough and others will take your place, both at the oars and as marines."
Suarez continued his lecture. Trusted men from his ship would crew the Leeuwin. Most of Vargas' men would move to the pirate's ship. But a whispered word from Marit pulled Lysbeth's attention from the pirate.
"What did you say?" Lysbeth barely breathed the words for fear of angering Suarez. Silently she prayed that Marit would not to cry out and draw attention to them.
No one reacted. All eyes were on Suarez.
"We never finished the game," Marit said.
"Oh, Marit."
Lysbeth's heart broke for the poor woman, though she dared not show it for fear of giving herself away.
"Will you tell me?"
Lysbeth swallowed hard, and then she nodded. Marit closed her eyes, and Lysbeth spoke in a breathy whisper.
"The man I seek is my father, Jan Janszoon, the dreaded scourge that men call Murat Reis. Never in my life was any part of him a preacher. He is a pirate in his soul and a prince among the Barbary Corsairs."
Lysbeth did not know if Marit heard the words before joining her husband in the afterlife.
She continued for her own benefit, steeling herself for what was next to come. "It seems now that I must practice his trade should I ever wish to find him."
Lysbeth laid Marit van Voorburg on the deck beside the fallen Henrik. Then she joined Alonso Vargas. Her body ached from exertion and injury, but she willed herself to stand straight as Gaspar Suarez welcomed them to a new life of piracy.
The People You Know
By Georgios Iconomou
The USE assistant ambassador's office, Venice
Early March 1635
Wells Turski looked at the middle-aged guy si
tting on the chair opposite him and frowned. Estil was a good old friend. And a hell of a guy. But he had a serious flaw; he attracted trouble like moths to a flame. As was the case now.
"Estil," he said, "if anyone could find a way to screw up a good deal it would, undoubtedly, be you."
"I did not!" his friend protested.
An image and a memory flashed through Wells' mind; an image of a crane getting a Volkswagen Bug off the high school roof. And the memory of the aftermath. "The Bug on the roof," he just said.
"It was a prank. A long time ago. Nobody was hurt."
No one but you, Wells thought. After that prank—Estil admitted that he had organized it, but refused to give up any other names, including yours truly—he was suspended, of course. And then, to everyone's puzzlement, he refused to finish his senior year. He never gave any reason why; Wells suspected it was stubbornness, plain and simple. For Estil everything was black or white, no gray in between. In the end he paid the price. No graduation, no scholarship, no college, no career. Unless of course if you count bussing tables and bartending as a career.
He shook his head. "What about the Count of Leiningen-Westerburg?" he asked. "And his pregnant young wife?"
"How could I know it was her in my bed?" Estil looked at his friend with a pleading expression. "They just started coming to my room after the lights were out. I'm not at all sure who they all were or how many of them there were," he added sheepishly.
"Estil Congden, the Don Juan of Magdeburg!" Wells declaimed with a crooked smile.
"Oh please, spare me the sarcasm."
"Okay, Okay, I'm sorry," Wells said. "Whatever happened, well, it's in the past. Now, what can I do for you?"
"I need a place to hide for a while. To see what happens."
Wells rubbed his chin. "I can cover room and board here at the embassy for a few days. You are a distressed citizen after all." He then changed the subject. "I suppose you're broke," he said.
"I've got a bit of money to get by for a week or two," Estil said, relaxing into the chair. "I have enough money in my savings account back in Magdeburg, but I left in a hurry and I didn't get a letter of credit."
"You bank with the Abrabanels?" Wells asked.
Estil nodded in the affirmative.
"That makes things simpler," Wells said. "They are our bankers also. I will check with Gavriel Abrabanel first thing tomorrow. Don't worry." He thought for a moment. "I will also send a message to Lyndon. Let's see if he's heard anything."
****
Wells' office, a couple of days later
Wells sat in an armchair opposite Estil. Here goes nothing, he thought. "Estil, I have some good and some bad news from back home," he said. "Which do you want first?"
Estil gave him a resigned smile. "Gimme the bad news first," he said.
"Are you sure?" Wells asked, afraid of his friend's reaction. He was more than certain that Estil, upon hearing the news, would jump and head for the door. It was Estil's preferred way of dealing with unpleasant things…running away from them.
Estil just nodded, which did nothing to assuage Wells' fears.
"There have been requests for the whereabouts of Estil Congden," Wells carefully said. "Some of them were insistent and some of them were less than polite."
Upon hearing it, Estil didn't move from his chair. He just sat there calmly, too calmly for Well's taste, and only raised his eyebrow in return.
Wells stared at him with his mouth open. Estil…calm…no drugs in the vicinity. Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore, he thought as he tried to regain his composure.
"And the good news?" Estil finally asked.
"Well, according to your good friend Lyndon," Wells made sure to emphasize the last three words, "Estil Congden is in Amsterdam ready to embark a ship for London."
"What?" Estil almost jumped from his chair.
"You have to thank Lyndon for that," Wells said. "He created some false leads about your whereabouts." He saw the look of disbelief on his friend's face. "Estil, despite what you think, you DO have friends willing to help you."
"But Lyndon is not my friend," Estil protested. "He barely knows me. He—"
"Because I asked him."
"You asked him? Why?" Estil asked, his eyes wide.
Wells sighed. "Because I am your friend. And because, back then, you took the fall for all of us. I. Owe. You." He looked the other man straight in the eyes. "And I always pay my debts, Estil. Always."
Estil's chin was on his chest as he shook his head slowly. "That was a long time ago," he finally said.
"Not long enough for me," Wells replied. He closed his eyes. Damned sentimental fool, he silently chastised himself. After a moment, he let out a long breath.
"Estil," he finally said, "I made some discreet inquiries about your count. You are safe here. Trust me on that."
"The last time someone told me that, she ended up pregnant and me on the run."
"Really, Estil," Wells said in a calm manner. "Look, your count is an aspiring politician."
Estil looked at him for a long moment, started to speak, closed his mouth and tilted his head at him. "And how exactly does that help me?" he finally asked.
"If the information I have is correct, the count will get a cabinet post under the new administration. After that," Wells shrugged, "it will be counterproductive for his career to continue this vendetta with you. He can't afford to be the laughing stock of Magdeburg."
"But if he becomes Secretary, I won't be able to return to Grantville," Estil pointed out.
"Why not?" Wells asked. "He is looking for Estil Congden, not a guy named Bubba Brown. By the way, using Bubba as a name… that was a stroke of genius."
"Wells Turski, you are an idiot." Estil hissed. "I can change my name but not my face. I will be recognized the moment I set my foot in town. And the count has people in Grantville searching for me."
"I hadn't thought of that," Wells admitted. He saw that Estil was just about to reply so he held up his hand. "Then you have no other option, Estil," he said. "Use your Bubba alias here and disappear for a while, a couple of months. I will monitor the situation in Magdeburg and keep you posted. After that…we will see."
After a couple of long moments Estil mumbled grudgingly, mostly to himself, "Yeah, that might work."
"In that case, Gavriel will need more time to move your money from Magdeburg," Wells cautioned. "Money trails need to be established to Amsterdam and then open a new account under Bubba Brown—"
"Can that be done?" Estil wanted to know.
"Yes, but it'll take some time."
"How much time?"
Wells shrugged. "Gavriel said at least a month to make things fool-proof. Maybe two, to be sure."
"Two months? Damn, I'll run out of money by then," Estil said, defeated.
"You need to find a job," Wells responded. "Do you know any Latin?"
"No."
"Of course not, what was I thinking. Anything mechanical?" he asked hopefully. "I could get you a job with Basil Lascar and Conrad Ursinus at the Arsenale."
"No."
"Damn." Wells looked at Estil, paused for a moment and then grinned. "Well, we've had some inquiries about giving waltz lessons and organizing parties. You could . . . "
Estil turned pale and sat bolt upright. "Hell no! No way! Absolutely NOT!" he snarled.
"Calm down, Estil. It was only a suggestion."
"And a sure way to get me killed," Estil snorted. "No thank you. Been there, done that, and I have the scars to prove it!"
"Well, Estil, what particular skills do you have?" Wells asked, exasperated. "There aren't any Bugs in Venice that need to be moved." Yes, he knew it was a snotty thing to say; he really could have skipped the last line.
"What skills do I have?" Estil paused. "Well, I'm a bartender," he said. "I'm also the finest up-time English blank verse poet as you'll ever meet in this day and age." He laughed disparagingly. "So, no, Mister Assistant Ambassador to Venice, I do not have any marketable
skills."
Wells fell silent for a minute, giving Estil a thoughtful look. "This might be a problem," he admitted sadly. "Look, let me ask around and see what happens. Until then you can stay here at the embassy."
"Well, that's better than nothing."
****
The next morning
"And here, Signore Bubba, we can see the Fontego dei Tedeschi, the German Warehouse. It is . . ."
As his gondola silently glided through the wide Grand Canal, the Canalazzo, Estil let his companion babble, paying only scant attention. Antonio Montesera, Wells' personal assistant, was a highly competent secretary. And very well informed. In another life, and time, Estil was sure that he would make an excellent tour guide. But not this time.
The last thing on Estil's mind was sightseeing. He contemplated the beauty of his surroundings with nothing more than a customary glance. No, he wasn't immune to the grandeur of the magnificent palazzi and the grandiose churches that dominated both sides of Venice's main thoroughfare, far from it. He was just engrossed in his thoughts.
How had Wells managed to land this job interview for me so soon? Estil wondered. Who cares? Beggars can't be choosers. The only thing Wells told him was that a young Venetian patrician, Gian Francesco Loredano his name, wanted someone who could prepare coffee the "American" way. Apparently, he had been in Grantville and Magdeburg a couple of times and acquired a taste for espresso. Nothing more than that.
He turned towards Antonio. "Who is this Loredano guy?" he asked.
Antonio's chattering came to a stop. He rubbed his chin and remained silent for a moment. "Signore Giovan Francesco Loredano," he finally said. "Gian Francesco for his friends. Son of gentiluomo Lorenzo Loredano and Leonora Boldù. Orphaned at an early age; his uncle, Senator Antonio Boldù, acted as his guardian. He-"
"Is he married?"
Antonio shook his head. "Not at the moment, signore," he said.
Estil exhaled and silently thanked God for small favors. The last thing I want is a repeat of Magdeburg.
"But not for long," Antonio continued. "Signore Loredano is the last of his family branch. There is pressure on him to get married. He is a patrician, he is well connected and an acclaimed poet-"
Grantville Gazette, Volume 65 Page 4